by Unknown
And on her? You smell a hint of fear; has some primitive part of her brain warned her that she has been the target of your play? She is still here, though.
Now the spell breaks, and the audience is on its feet. You are calm as you put away your guitar; you’ve heard the shouts and applause too many times over too many years to care much anymore. You play for one person a night these days.
It’s time. You wish Holman would take the equipment home with him tonight, and he does. Garrett has already disappeared into the dark and the smoke, looking to mingle neurochemical salvation with his blood. Your blood demands satisfaction too, but even though it’s been days and your hunger is frost-sharp and desperate, you will not spoil the hunt by breaking the rules.
You look up after locking your Gibson in its case; she is no longer in the club. Even as you rub your eyes, your nose tells you that she’s gone. Another twenty-four empty hours, then, and one last chance. There are plenty of hangers-on clustering around the front of the stage and it would be easy to take any one of them. Once you would have done that, if only to fill the emptiness. But, as your years have run into decades, you have come to believe that emptiness can be more meaningful than most of the things you’ve tried to fill it with. You let yourself melt into the gloom and slip out the back door, to a dust-blown alley and a bone-dry basalt sky.
She’s not there. You admit that a part of you had been expecting her to be waiting for you. Perhaps you’re not what you once were. After so many unchanging decades, contemplating deterioration is an unfamiliar sensation.
At the end of the alley, though, a figure is waiting. She’s downwind, you realize; that’s why you saw her first. “I was hoping you’d waited,” you say.
“I wasn’t going to,” she says. “That last song was for me, wasn’t it?”
“They all were,” you say, struggling to control the excitement rising in you. “If only the last one actually got through, that’s all right. Most people don’t even hear that much.”
She is walking, you note, on your right side; the guitar case is between you, your hand occupied in carrying it. “I don’t usually … go out with musicians,” she says.
“I’m not like other musicians,” you say, and it is mostly true.
She doesn’t answer that, but she continues walking beside you. Under the streetlights her soft, pleasant face looks more drawn, pale; her eyes when she looks at you are black and endless as your nights. When she sees you watching her, she self-consciously brushes her short dark hair back behind her ears. She smells of partially oxidized alcohol and burnt tobacco, but these are veneers only; her true scent is there too, under her white t-shirt and worked into the fabric of her jeans. Her throat is smooth and pale as polished chalcedony. No veins are visible, but the blood is there; you can almost taste it.
“Why do you play only the old songs?” she asks, destroying the pleasure of your contemplation.
“As opposed to what passes for pop music today?” She’s probably only asking to be polite; you try to be polite. “The older songs are more conducive to jazz,” you say. “They allow changes in key that give me more patterns of notes to choose from when I play.”
“I’ve always wondered how jazz musicians improvise,” she says. “I’ve been in the club for just about all of your dates and I’ve never heard you play a tune the same way twice.” She mistakes careful selection for improvisation, you think. You are not really offended, though. Everyone makes that mistake; they’ve been making it for nearly eighty years. And each year it grows easier to fool them as your store of knowledge grows. Teaching yourself new permutations of old songs is the only thing that gets you through endless days in darkened basement rooms.
“It must be a bit frightening, I’d think,” she says after a moment’s thought. “Not really knowing what you’re going to play next, and if it’ll work? I know I’d be scared.”
“It’s not really that bad.” There are plenty of things that frighten you — loneliness, the bitter taste of so much that you used to enjoy — but being on stage is not one of them. “Besides,” you say, “the excitement more than compensates.”
“Oh, yeah. I was in my high school band. I was always afraid I was going to throw up before concerts, but once they started I loved it.”
The excitement you feel is the excitement of the hunt, but perhaps at some level she knows what you’re talking about. Her face is animated now, her eyes glinting with reflected mercury vapour light. Her breathing is more rapid, and you can feel the flush stealing into her cheeks and throat. Her growing awareness is exciting her, and you are in turn feeding on that excitement.
It has been your intention to take her home first, but the blood rising to her skin is beginning to inflame you. You remind yourself that, after a few weeks of waiting, a few more minutes shouldn’t be all that much to deal with.
A dark alley beckons, though. You pull her in, turning so that your black leather blocks any street view of that white t-shirt. “Hey,” she begins, but her lips stay parted and her eyes are shining as you lean the guitar case against a wall and place your hands on her neck, cup her face in your hands. “Not here,” she protests, but her face tilts up to yours. Now your cold hands are absorbing her own heat, sending it back to her, and when you press your mouth to hers you are warm enough that she does not start at the sensation. She can taste your desire, and though she does not understand it, she responds to it. One hand stroking her neck, you move the other down to a breast, brush against it until the nipple stiffens from the gentle pressure. Then you shift your hand lower. There is no pleasure for you in this, but you want her blood suffusing her skin and your weeks of observing have told you that this is the variation to play on this particular tune.
When you lower your lips to her neck, she throws her head back. “Ah,” she says.
Her skin tears easily, onionskin paper under a quill pen.
She tenses briefly as you begin to drink, but makes no sound beyond a soft moan; and not for the first time you wonder if you have found something more than a victim here. Her hands still grip your shoulders and briefly your spirit soars as you try to make yourself think about sharing yourself, your everlasting life, with her.
But her blood is spicy and hot with the sharp odour of dust on hot metal and it has been days since you last fed. Before you are aware of what you are doing, her hands have released you and her arms have dropped limply. There is still plenty of blood, but it cools rapidly. For a moment you pause, bitterly chastising yourself for your lack of feeling, of restraint.
Then you return to feeding. You will have to start over again because of this, and it may be some time before you eat again. And what is the point of chastising yourself, anyway? You are out all night, you have no real friends, and you cannot maintain any kind of relationship. How does this make you any different from any other musician?
You let the body drop into a pile of empty boxes then pick up your guitar case. As you walk out of the alley, you brush your hair back behind one ear.
The Drinker
By Victoria Fisher
I remember my first.
I was poor, unemployed and desperate. I had a basement apartment with rusting plumbing that dripped noisily into a bucket. Somehow along the way I’d left most of my friends behind and counted my greasy landlady among those I still had.
I’d taken to going to bars. I didn’t drink much — never liked alcohol, never had the money — but I’d sit at the bar, my hand resting on a glass of whatever was cheap. I’d watch the people come and go and came to recognize the regulars and know their life stories and sorrows without counting myself among them. Nobody took much notice of me and I was okay with that. I hated everyone for their successes, and hated myself for failings.
She wasn’t a regular. She was in her thirties, too old and well-dressed for the usual crowd, her black hair cut too severely for her round face and soft features. She sat beside me at the bar without ordering anything. She sat there for a long while w
ithout speaking at all.
I watched her out of the corner of my eye. There was something odd about her skin: her round cheeks seemed grey and matte instead of pink and shiny. She’d put on blush to hide it, but so close to her I could see her pallid colour. She wasn’t wearing lipstick and her lips were as ashy as her face.
The barmen didn’t bother her, although she wasn’t ordering. She sat silently watching the people, like me.
“Fuckers.” I don’t know what made me say it.
She looked at me for the first time. She smiled and her teeth were pure white.
“Want a taste?”
Somehow, in the way she said it, I knew she didn’t mean her, or drink, or drugs. She meant the people. Did I want a taste of them? It made perfect sense.
I hesitated.
“Just a sip,” she said. “If you don’t like it, it’s just a sip. Fuckers, like you said.”
“Okay,” I said.
She put a hand on my shoulder. Her little fingers on my collarbone seemed to push downward through skin, bone and muscle until they touched my heart.
“Pick one,” she said into my backbone. “Pick the best one.”
I picked. He was blonde, tall, and laughing and drinking beer with friends on a Saturday night. He was tipsy and his shorts pockets bulged with a wallet, cell phone and iPod.
She laughed, delighted, and the sound slipped down my spine like ice. “Take a sip.”
I sipped at him. He sat across the room, facing away, but somehow I tasted blood and then I tasted success. It was sweet, musky and warm. Success: I swam in its milky depth, allowed myself to drown there until the light dwindled to blackness.
When I opened my eyes, the bar was all but empty. The girl was gone, but I could still feel her hand on my heart, the tips of her fingers gently digging into the delicate flesh. The barman was already closing and he didn’t give me a second glance as I walked out.
The next day, I got a job. I bought a cellphone, and iPod and those plus my wallet made my pockets bulge.
Everywhere I went I felt her little fingertips against my heart. Just a sip. Just a sip. I wanted more. I laughed it off. And I tried — I tried to resist.
Just a sip. I sipped from the manager when he left work early to drive home in his Jaguar. I sipped from the police officer who pulled me over for speeding. I sipped at baseball games and from people who talked at the movies. I drank from people I disliked. I gulped from my enemies. They disappeared soon enough.
Each time I drank, I drank more. I took people’s success and then I took their hope and then I took their lives. I took them all. I travelled the world, seeking out my victims at the opera, in court, on the street, in hotels and motels; the distinguished, the abusive, the rich, the poor. All the fuckers of the world never knew I was there until their lives twisted out of shape and petty arguments became blood feuds, anger became self-loathing, battles became wars. Fuckers.
All the fuckers in the world were never enough.
“Are you feeling alright, sir?” my assistant asked one morning, after I’d returned from a long absence. “You look pale.”
I felt fingers grip my heart and laughter trickle down my spine. I didn’t answer. I was thirsty. I’d not tasted anyone since my flight the night before. I went to the bathroom and locked myself in before turning on the lights.
My skin was grey and unreflective, my hair cut in a style too severe for my unremarkable face. I grimaced and my teeth were pure white. Whiter than any dentist could make them.
And still I was thirsty. So thirsty. My ugly, bestial thirst viciously hounded me like desire or pain that I couldn’t shake. I tried, for the first time in years, to resist it. I had my assistant bring me coffee, tea, wine, beer, but none had an effect. When she brought the whisky I took a sip from my assistant instead of from the glass. And then I took a gulp. Then I drank as I had never drunk before, soaking up success and vitality and life.
I woke hours later. It had grown dark. I fumbled for the desk light and turned it on. My assistant was still there in the office, lying on her back by the door, one knee bent with her leg strewn out sideways and a graceful arm flung over her head, as if she were dancing. Burnt into the wooden floor, ringed around her hair, were black scorch marks.
She was the first one I’d killed.
I left the office and drove across town. The bar was still there. I don’t think I really needed to be there, but something poetic drew me back. I was already thirsty when I arrived.
I sat down at the bar, watching the people. The barman ignored me as if he didn’t see me and I didn’t order anything. The guy beside me ordered another beer with a wave of his hand. He was watching a girl laughing as she tried not to spill her drink. The despair in his blue eyes and pale face was clear. I could see the grey just beneath the surface of his skin.
He saw me looking. “What you want?”
The laughing girl turned her head, and her dark hair swirled out. I felt the familiar need. Just a tiny sip … just a little tiny sip. A last sip.
“Fuckers,” he said.
“Want a taste?” I said, and the question rolled off my tongue as if I had put it there.
He agreed quicker than I remembered agreeing.
I put my hand, flat, fingers splayed, on his left shoulder. My hand slid through his leather jacket as if it were melted butter and the skin and bone with little more difficulty. I touched his heart, hot and wet and pounding away under my fingertips. I felt him flinch as I gripped.
“Take a sip,” I said.
I saw through his eyes, felt though his teeth, tasted through his tongue. I coaxed him into reaching out, stretching across the room towards that dark-haired girl. He sipped her. I felt him taste blood, felt his pleasure, and felt him faint as I pulled out his heart.
It sat in my hand, a smooth, misshapen stone. It was scarlet, dripping blood and still warm from his body. I left the bar by the back door and entered the alley where the darkness was deep and I was hidden.
I touched the bloody stone to my tongue, expecting to savour blood but tasting only water. Convulsively, I swallowed and choked, slamming my body backwards against the brick wall. I arched my neck and back. My chest blazed with fire and my head was crammed with ice. I scratched my hands raw on the bricks behind me. The world turned red, black and white.
A couple came out of the bar and walked past without seeing me. I was alone. I fell to the ground.
“Hey,” said a girl, leaning over me, “are you okay? Do you want us to call you an ambulance?” Her long dark hair hung down over me — it was the girl from the bar. Even in the shadows, I could see in her eyes the piece of her soul that was missing, how her life would slowly become twisted and broken.
I felt fine. I told her so. She and her friends helped me up and she brushed off my expensive jacket. I gathered my belongings from where they had fallen — my cellphone, my wallet, my iPod; my sunglasses sat in a ring of scorch where my head had lain on the concrete.
“I’ll call you a cab,” she said, taking out her cell phone.
“Don’t worry. I feel fine.” But I still felt a hard lump in my throat and knew it for what it was: remorse. I felt a terrible, dark remorse still choking me.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“I feel fine,” I said again, and as she smiled I reached out and touched her hand and gave her back what I had taken from her, and more. She glowed from the inside. “Don’t worry, I’ll walk,” I said.
She smiled again and turned to go. I watched her walk away, surrounded by her friends, laughing once again.
Suddenly, the back door of the bar banged open and a blue-eyed man came out. He burned so black and hollow I had to look away. I was standing right in the light of the open door, full of horror and fear, but he didn’t see me at all. He disappeared quickly into the night.
The girl waved at me as she went around the corner. The last I saw of her was the flip of her hair and the sound of her laughter.
She was my first
and, although it was a very long time ago, I remember her well.
Sleepless in Calgary
By Kevin Cockle
“I’ll be damned,” the vampire said. “You do see me.”
David didn’t know what to say. Looking up from his seat on the side-bench facing the rear exit-door of the Calgary Transit bus, he felt like he might pass out. Back at the last stop, as the bus was pulling away, he could have sworn he’d seen a man coalesce out of a sudden swirl of blowing snow and what looked to be tendrils of fog. Could have been the pattern of white snow against the dark brick backdrop at first — suggesting an outline in the way of an optical illusion. But then the illusion had smiled, revealing its vicious, trademark incisors, and returned David’s gaze with a mix of surprise and delight.
The vampire regarded him now with a slight frown, right hand securing the overhead bar for balance as the filled-to-bursting bus lurched its way forward on rutted winter streets. The creature was pale, appearing to be a man in his early thirties, long-faced, not quite gaunt, but certainly lanky. He was dressed in a good wool long-coat — black — with black dress trousers and white sneakers for sensible traction on the treacherous city sidewalks. His cerulean eyes seemed set in a permanent scowl, blazing as though just on the edge of true fury, but his aspect was more curious now than threatening. He ran his left hand through long, wiry black locks, considering David as one might stare at a Rubik’s cube, as though staring alone could solve the problem.
David swallowed, cleared his throat to speak, but the vampire interrupted him. “Don’t. You’ll look like an idiot, talking to yourself. I’m a vampire … but you know that. I am here, but these folks aren’t registering, if you know what I mean. Listen: you’ve got questions, I’ve got questions — we should talk. I’ll look you up later when it’s not so crowded. I gotta say … it’s good to see you, brother. It’s good to be seen.”
The bus pulled over and the vampire moved to disembark. David blurted out “We…” and then caught himself, covering his mouth as though shielding a cough. The vampire stepped off the bus, put his bare hands in his pockets and walked off into the night.
